A National Incident You Say? That Sounds Like A Challenge!
by ITell
Summary: Set after the events of TGG, John and Sarah go on holiday to New Zealand to 'get away from it all.' Sherlock secretly comes along, fully intent to spy on them, only to stumble across a case that not only threatens the peacefulness of John and Sarah's holiday, but also the whole of New Zealand itself. NOW OFF HIATUS! Updates will be slow, please have patience.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, that wonderful honour belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss. But I can dream.

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**Prologue**

"Kia Ora (hello) and thank you for travelling Air New Zealand, please keep to the left of the yellow line when leaving the gate and . . . " John tuned out the automated voice blasting through the plane speakers and helped Sarah retrieve her bag from the overhead compartment. Just two carry-on bags between them. One small suitcase for John and two large cases for Sarah were waiting for them at the luggage retrieval area outside gate 4.

John didn't have much experience with taking girlfriends on holiday, but he wondered idly if that was the normal amount of luggage for a woman to take on a two week trip. He sighed happily. It was nice - and he savored the feeling - that his biggest worry was whether or not he had packed enough clothes himself for the two week holiday; and not along the lines of semtex, endangered lives, severed heads and giant assassins. God he hoped the boredom wouldn't strike till he got home.

Things had been tense after The Pool. John was on edge, symptoms of his PTSD were making a subtle and ugly return in the form of cold sweats and tremors; Sherlock was sulking, or thinking. (It was hard to tell which sometimes. Probably both though.) He was spouting theories about the identity of Moriarty's mysterious caller, much to John's annoyance. The doctor had no desire to find their inadvertent savior, except to thank the caller for saving their lives and to advise him about the many potential health risks of being in the general vicinity of a psychopathic 'consulting criminal'.

The head was still in the fridge. It had begun to stink. John hoped it would be removed by the time he got home, but he didn't have much faith. John had left Sherlock lying on the couch in his blue dressing gown complaining of boredom and threatening to cause a 'national incident' if John left. John told him, with a stern look, that Tuesday's macaroni cheese was still good and he WOULD eat it by the weekend, or Mrs. Hudson promised to come up every evening and clean the kitchen - experiments be damned. With that he bade Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock goodbye, and sent a silent prayer to anyone capable of listening, that the flat would still be standing when he got back.

John and Sarah left the main terminal and made their way to the long row of taxis, stopping once to let four police officers hurry by on their way to customs; responding, John guessed, to the overhead speaker announcement stating that gate 4 was currently closed for 'safety reasons.' John had instinctively looked for Sherlock, before remembering that he was safely ensconced in Baker Street - too far away to rile up even these officers. Besides, Sherlock isn't his concern right now.

Dr. John Watson is officially on holiday.

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**A/N: **I would like to give my sincere thanks to **Lady Sam Mallory ** for reading over my work and giving wonderful advice - without which this story would still not be written. I would also like to thank **johnsarmylady ** for her words of encouragement.

Any and all reviews and PM's are welcome, whether you liked it or not. Constructive criticism is very useful to me. I will endevour to respond to all of them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, that honour lies with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss. But I can dream.**

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Sherlock had thought ennui was hell. That, of course, was before he boarded a twenty-three hour flight on economy; sitting behind a colicky baby with a mother inept at _shutting the damn thing up_.

The worst part being he couldn't, as Mycroft would probably put it, 'make a spectacle of himself'; because John and Sarah were three rows ahead and were likely to kill him if they found out Sherlock was following them.

Not that he hadn't taken precautions - his now strawberry blonde hair being one of the greatest sacrifices Sherlock had ever made in the name of a case - because that is what this is, Sherlock told himself: a case; Moriarty was a worldwide threat with infinite resources at his fingertips.

It certainly wasn't Sherlock being _paranoid _(what a ridiculous notion!) As Mycroft seemed to think. _ (He could talk! Did Mycroft think Sherlock would miss the extra security detail at the flat?) _

And it was - without even a slither of doubt - definitely _not _ a sentimental concern for his friend that spurred the action to follow him to New Zealand. Not that he could convince the Detective Inspector of that, when he had found out Sherlock's plan.

"You've both been through a lot," Lestrade had said when Sherlock had turned up at his office wheedling for a case, "it would be natural for _anyone_ to be a bit more concerned for his safety than usual, not just you; but following him halfway around the bloody world seems a bit excessive, even by a Holmes' standard. Don't you think?"

"This is hardly about John's safety - I know the man can care for himself; even when strapped to a bomb, John was reasonably functional - but this would be the perfect opportunity for Moriarty to strike, whilst we are separated. I'm not going to give Moriarty the tactical advantage by leaving John unprotected and ripe for an abduction." Of course Sherlock knew that John would probably be under twenty-four hour surveilance as soon as he stepped on the plane - courtesy of Mycroft, naturally - but nobody had John's back like Sherlock, and vice versa.

"Look, I know you're worried for him -" Lestrade began, straightening up in his chair.

"I'm not worried." Sherlock interjected.

"- But let the bloke enjoy his holiday. If I had to live with you, two weeks on the other side of the world wouldn't nearly be enough of a vacation - bloody hell, _I _want to go to New Zealand now, and I've only been talking to you for five minutes!" Lestrade eyed Sherlock. A warning.

A warning that Sherlock immediately dismissed. "I told you, I'm not worried about John's safety - I shouldn't be surprised at having to repeat myself, you are after all an idiot, - but I am going to _New Zealand," _ Sherlock spoke the last words distastefully, the way he did about any location that wasn't in London; "and you are not going to tell John." Sherlock smiled sardonically.

The Detective Inspector, who had unfortunately chosen that exact moment to take a reluctant sip of his coffee, spat out the lukewarm liquid onto his desk. He sat there, a look of shock upon his face that would of earned him a couple of quips from Sherlock; were the consulting detective not wrinkling his nose in disgust at such a display of 'transport betrayal'.

"Why the hell wouldn't I?" Lestrade eventually said, after much spluttering, red in the face. He did so hate it when Sherlock had the audacity to give him orders. He tolerated it during a case - when lives were at stake, or when he can pawn off the demands to his subordinates - but not on personal matters, _there has to be a line somewhere!_

"I trust you remember last year's Christmas party? The one you dragged me to, on threat of withholding cases? The one where you woke up on New Brighton beach, if I remember correctly; amnesiac, hungover and quite naked - except for the pink, fluffy slippers?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief.

Lestrade raised _his _ eyebrows in very real horror. "Oh god. You know? I thought I was alone there - though to this day I have no idea _how _ I got to New Brighton in the first place . . . " The Detective Inspector trailed off looking nauseous.

"Oh I was there - studying the effects of methanphetamine spiked punch on an average intellect was too good to pass up - and no, before you jump to conclusions, I wasn't the one who spiked it. I have my suspicions though, but I need more data before I can be sure." Sherlock smirked as Lestrade started spluttering again.

"Do you want to see the photos?" Sherlock asked innocently.

" . . . Photos?" Lestrade, seeing where this was going and not liking it one bit, slumped in defeat.

"Obviously. You were an extremely disappointing specimen - your reactions were very predictable, hardly worth studying; so I took some pictures, for blackmailing purposes, to make up for such a monumental waste of my time." Sherlock slid his finger along the touchscreen of his phone every five seconds; each picture showed Lestrade in a different state of undress.

The Detective Inspector groaned into his hands. Only Sherlock Holmes would deem blackmail pictures a necessary compensation for being high-off-your-rocker on a class A drug and not being _interesting _enough. Then again, only Sherlock Holmes would know that the punch was spiked with Meth, yet let half of New Scotland Yard drink it.

The rest of the conversation entailed much swearing, talk of past transgressions and, on Lestrade's part, threats of bodily harm that were only half empty. In the end the Detective Inspector agreed to Sherlock's terms and promised not to tell John of Sherlock's plans, if only to get hold of the photos - no man should ever be seen wearing slippers so pink and fluffy.

John helped Sarah get her bag down from the overhead compartment. No, it was definitely not something as mawkish as _concern for his friend _ that motivated him to leave the sanctity of 221B. Though next time he must tell John to holiday somewhere more interesting - Crime is so predictible in this part of the world.

John and Sarah were just leaving customs when the first officers intercepted him.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" _Male, fifty-five, retiring soon against his will or at least close to termination of his employment judging by the fraying of his cuffs and general lack of care for his uniform; pinpricks in various stages of healing, on fingers - indicative of diabetes, (being fired for not disclosing his diabetes to his employers, perhaps?) _

The second officer - _female, twenty-nine, employed for six months, having affair with boss - obviously: her pink lipstick is smudged on the man's inner collar; eyes flittering nervously to the other officer - reported the affair anonymously to his superiors, carrying it on the avoid suspicion until he leaves. (Ah, soon to be fired for an inappropriate relationship with his trainees) _ - stood meekly beside the first.

Sherlock should have known that Mycroft wouldn't let him leave without getting in the last word. Mycroft's 'brotherly concern' and need to thrust 'life lessons' upon Sherlock was quite nauseating. As was Mycroft in general, in Sherlock's opinion.

"No, I will not be coming with you. You can tell the British Government to find another life to meddle in for the meanwhile - I don't think he has terrified The Detective Inspector for awhile - should be fun for him." Sherlock said brusquely, brushing past them in a bid to keep John in his line of sight, leaving the officers behind, dumbfounded.

Sherlock was blocked again by four heavily armed officers as John and Sarah rounded the corner, on their way to exit the terminal.

"Oh for the love of . . . What do you want now? Don't you have a drug mule to detain?" Sherlock waved his hands exasperated.

They drew their weapons and motioned for him to lie on the floor. Ah. He was why the gate was closed. They didn't actually know about the cocaine smuggler who had sat three seats away from Sherlock. Typical. A police force made up entirely of idiots wasn't just a British thing then.

He complied as one of the officers checked him for weapons and another read him his rights. "Sherlock Holmes, we are detaining you for questioning." The sentence had tapered off at the end. Sherlock smirked sensing a chance to have a dig.

"Yes obviously; do you know what you are to be questioning me about, by any chance?" Sherlock put on an overly innocent face as he was hauled up. No handcuffs. Definitely Mycroft involvement - his elder brother seemed to have something against seeing the young detective in shackles.

"No, top secret apparently. The British embassy have sent over someone themselves." The officer eyed Sherlock speculatively as he was led past the interrogation rooms, on the soon-to-be-fired officer's orders, and towards an office suite.

Sherlock entered and closed the door on all the officer's faces; immediately dropping his innocuous facade. He turned, without ackowledging 'Anthea;' and looked directly into the eyes of the person on the laptop screen in her hands.

"Mycroft, I officially hate you more than any other person alive." The man on the screen let out a long-suffering sigh. "And I see the diet is going terribly. How excellent."

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**A/N: ** Okay, this chapter is actually a lot shorter than I planned; but I felt that this was a natural stopping point. I think, since this is my first fic and I don't want to get overwhelmed, that I'm going to keep all the chapters short - but I will try to update more regularly to make up for it.

Personally, I don't think New Zealand police officers are idiots. Any derogatory remarks are purely there because Sherlock made me write them.

In future chapters the Maori language will make a significant appearance, but I will have all the translations either in brackets next to the words or at the bottom of the story in an author's note if they are too long.

Thank you to everybody who has taken the time to read this, it is extremely appreciated.

Any and all reviews and PM's are welcome, whether you liked it or not. Constructive criticism is very useful to me. I will endevour to respond to all of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. That honour lies with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss. But I can dream!**

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'Anthea' placed a cup of strongly-brewed coffee next to Sherlock and silently left to deal with the protesting officers outside. Sherlock didn't even look at the cup - though he was dying for something unhealthily caffiene laden - and glared at Mycroft, (whom in turn glared right back at Sherlock,) on the screen, which was now sat on the conference table.

Mycroft broke first with a sigh - he had a 10am appointment with the MOD that could not be avoided - this couldn't take all day. (Or night, rather, for Sherlock.) "Brother dear, do you care to tell me what on Earth you are doing in New Zealand at this hour?"

"Don't be a simpleton Mycroft. You know exactly why I am here." Sherlock rolled his eyes, putting his feet on the table in a way he knew that Mycroft would find vulgar.

Mycroft curled his lips displeased, but carried on. "Really? One would assume you were on a case - what with the blonde hair; but I happen to know for a fact that you don't have one. So why would you be on the other side of the world?" Mycroft clasped his hands together under his chin, obviously enjoying himself.

"To get away from my obtrusive brother?" Sherlock said sarcastically. "_We _ don't assume Mycroft. Say what you wish to say, then I shall be on my way." Sherlock winced at the unintentional rhyme. He hated play on words, unless, of course, murder was involved.

"Do you think it wise to spy on Doctor Watson? My people are very capable of ensuring his safety."

"Yes, I know. Your people were on sparkling form the night Moriarty abducted John and strapped a semtex vest to him."

Mycroft's face turned sour. "We have more efficient people on his detail."

"Indeed. Though you understand my concern -"

"Concern?" Mycroft looked positively gleeful behind a mask of characteristicly sardonic humour. "For Doctor Watson?"

"No. For his inherent ability to be kidnapped. Moriarty is a smart man, whom knows where to strike -"

"Because of your concern." Mycroft's voice left no room for dispute - he really did have an appointment to be getting along too - naturally Sherlock, the man who would outlive god to get the last word, decided not to concede.

Though his arguement wasn't quite as eloquent as one would think of the great Sherlock Holmes. "No."

"No?"

"No. I have no _concern _ for John's welfare. This is purely tactical, as I explained to the Detective Inspector, Moriarty could strike at anytime. I will not be caught unaware."

Mycroft smirked as much as a respectable man such as himself would. (Which actually wasn't all that much, but enough to be noticable to a certain consulting detective.)

"My agents have confirmed that Moriarty is currently in Norway. Give Joanne five minutes, I'm sure she can get you on the next available flight there."

"So it's Joanne today?"

"You're changing the subject Sherlock."

"Irrelevant. I shall be on my way. You have a defence meeting you're going to be late for, going by your particularly formal state of dress and regular clock checking. Goodbye Mycroft; perhaps you should try the Sucoll diet, by the way - it's the new fad amongst pasty, overweight, obtruding government officials." Sherlock started putting on his coat; a black, shorter version of the Belstaff - which he was loath to leave at home, but it was necessary for the disguise.

"I shall not grant you passage into New Zealand without proper cause." Mycroft sounded disgruntled - he had only put on two pounds, his dietician had said that he'd reached a plateau!

"Then I will go without a permit. Police are idiots. I've seen six ways to leave this terminal without going through border control." Sherlock sounded bored.

"I daresay that being a fugative would be quite impeding to your _tactical efforts." _ Mycroft scoffed the last words.

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled sardonically, the position of power well and truly in his hands as always. "Tell me of the true nature of your trip - that it is purely out of the personal concern you have for Doctor Watson and his safety - and I will cancel your deportation order."

Sherlock gripped the back of the chair tightly with both hands glaring at Mycroft. Mycroft stared back, observing.

Exactly one hundred and eighty seconds passed before Sherlock stormed out of the conference room.

Mycroft didn't stop him.

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John and Sarah's taxi rolled up to a well kept house in Ashburton, a large town an hour away from the airport.

A man limped out to greet them grinning; he was tall, with greying hair that had grown out to his shoulders, he had a large puckered scar that ran down from his forehead to his chin.

John and Michael had first met when they were part of the same All Arms Recruits Course after they had enlisted. They parted ways after John left to do his medical training and Michael was assigned to a base in Northern Ireland. They met again, several years later, when John was assigned as the field surgeon in Michael's Company in Iraq. Unfortunately it was during that deployment that Michael had the bad luck to step on an IED on patrol. Michael was given a medical discharge after being fitted with a prosthetic leg. He moved to New Zealand with his wife Ngaire and her son Lee, whom were both originally from New Zealand and settled into a civilian life quite nicely, tending his vegetable plot. John and Michael never lost contact, except for the few months during John's depression when John himself was discharged.

John sometimes wonders if he would have been happy with civilian life if he had had a wife and children himself, and hadn't met Sherlock. How could Michael stand it? It was a mystery, but Michael, ever an upbeat bloke, didn't seem to hold any reservations; and John didn't feel the need to ask. Hopefully New Zealand would have the same effect for John as it did for Michael.

Michael gave John a quick hug, still grinning like a cheshire cat, and shook Sarah's hand.

He raised his arms, palms outstretched like a ringmaster pumping up the crowd at a circus; and motioned vaguely around him. The sky was black but cloudless, giving an unobstructed view of the millions of tiny stars dotted in the sky; a scene Londoners rarely get to experience. The suburb was quiet, the breeze was warm and crickets chirped softly in the darkness.

Relaxing bliss.

"Welcome to New Zealand." Michael said still grinning.

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**A/N: ** Oh man, writing interaction between Sherlock and Mycroft just about killed me. I had to rewatch all episodes where Sherlock and Mycroft had a conversation (not that I ever need an excuse to watch Sherlock!) and it still feels wrong to me! Your opinions?

This is actually quite short, but again, I felt this was a natural stopping point.

I promise next chapter I'll try to write in some actual plot and get this story rolling.

Thank you to all reviews that I haven't had a chance to respond to yet - I'm going to work on that!

Any and all reviews and PM's are welcome, whether you liked it or not. Constructive criticism is very useful to me. I will endevour to respond to all of them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, that amazing honour belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss. I can dream though!**

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**A/N: **This chapter has taken a horrific amount of time to write and I am afraid it is indecently small in size, but this story is officially dead in the water for me. If I manage to write more chapters in the future, then I definitely will put them up, but until then . . . this is on permanent hiatus. I feel so bad for saying it, but there we go.

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There was only mild awkwardness when John and Sarah discovered the one bed in their room - but hey, they had to get to the bed-sharing stage at some point, right?

John awoke the next morning, nightmare free, to an empty bed and the smell of frying bacon. After a quick shower and a change into a clean set of clothes, John moseyed out into the kitchen.

Ngaire, Michael's wife, was hovering over the stove-top, now frying eggs. John had met Ngaire once before in an airport before deployment. She was taller than Michael by three inches and bore an intricate Moko on her chin. (See A/N.)

"Tena koe (There you are) John!" She said in a heavy kiwi accent. She left the stove-top and embraced John in a bone-crushing hug. "I am so glad you have come!"

John heard Sarah's hysterical giggle from the living room.

"Michael is telling Sarah about how you got your nickname! You naughty boy Three-Continents Watson!"

"What? Oh no." John groaned and rushed into the living room as Michael was saying:

"Well, after all that you can imagine what we all thought when we walked into the barracks to find him passed out drunk, naked and with a pelican gobbling up all the rations!"

"Sarah, don't listen to him, anything and _everything _Michael says has been taken out of preportion!"

"Don't be embarrassed John, it's not like that was the worst nickname out there! Remember that guy Spork?"

"Oh yeah. Tell Sarah about old Sporky."

"Okay, but don't think I didn't notice the change of subject there John." Michael launched into another story as John gratefully ate up the plate of food that Ngaire pushed into his hands.

** "**Okay, so I'm thinking I'll give you a big tour of Ashburton today; show you the sights and all that - Lee will join us later."

** "**Oh, where is Lee? I haven't seen him since he was ten." John looked around as if expecting Lee to pop up out of thin air.

"Out with friends, hellraising probably - you remember how it was." Michael chuckled.

"Never too old." John muttered thinking of his escapades with Sherlock.

"I really wish he wouldn't go out at night, Michael." Ngaire said collecting John's plate. "Not with the gangs about." She disappeared off into the kitchen, sighing.

"Gangs?" Sarah asked timidly, thinking of the Black Lotus, and John and Sarah's first date.

"Yeah, 'The Hungry Dogs.' Bunch of animals, they've been passing through here a lot more often now they have a clubhouse over in Methven." Michael shook his head disgusted. "Terrorising innocent civilians, vandalism. Petty stuff, but still intimidating. They think they're tough guys - but they're just little boys with a power complex."

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They spent their morning driving around Ashburton, learning about the local culture and enjoying the sights.

They drove past a protest line standing under a large sign saying 'The Pukatea Forest Reserve.'

John and Sarah read the picket signs with slogans promoting the Reserve's preservation.

"What was that about?" John asked Michael.

"Oh, big political drama. The Priskings Energy Corporation is our biggest energy company and they want to buy and deforest The Pukatea Reserve. If they don't, they'll go bankrupt; but if they do, Ashburton will be pollution central of New Zealand and our fair country will be footing the bill for their expansion for years to come - it'll probably plunge New Zealand into a recession."

"Well that's not good. Who owns the Reserve?" Asked John, his Sherlock-induced detective instincts rearing it's head.

"The government. Priskings offered a lot of money for the Reserve . . . definitely enough to tempt Parliment." Michael shook his head. "Actually the Prime Minister is coming to Ashburton to announce the government's decision tomorrow evening."

Michael grinned. "Something to look forward to anyway."

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**A/N: **A Moko is a tattoo of Maori design, often on the face. It's an extremely personal thing and thought to be very spiritual.

As far as I am aware, in New Zealand, The Hungry Dogs do not exist - we have other gangs, but they're all a lot more inventive with their names than I am. :)

Also, there is no Priskings Corporation or Pukatea Reserve.

Just so you know for any future chapters, I've changed the name of the New Zealand Prime Minister to comply to site rules.

Oh, and Methven is a half hour drive from Ashburton, in case anyone was wondering.

Any and all reviews and PM's are welcome, whether you liked it or not. Constructive criticism is very useful to me. I will endevour to respond to all of them.


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